Dear Diary,
Today I found myself tangled once more in the old family web that has wrapped itself around my life for decades. When Evelyn, my sisterinlaw, snapped at our niece Lucy, Were not anyones charity! she shouted, trying to convince Lucy that she was right. Lucys face crumpled as if she might burst into tears, then she lifted her head and declared, If thats how you see it, shell always be my dear Nobodythe one who means the world to me.
It all began in the bustling farmstead of my brother Ian and his wife Margaret, who had taken in every girl from our large countryside clan except the youngest, Mollysoftspoken, meek, and somehow overlooked. It seemed her suitor never materialised, perhaps lost to the faroff hills, as Margaret would sigh, pitying her daughter. Molly remained a sturdy pillar for her parents while none of her citybound nephews could muster a child of their own.
The first to knock on the door was Tom, the eldest son of my older sister, bowing low and pleading, Aunt Molly, would you mind looking after my daughter? I cant get a spot in nursery and my wife needs to return to work. By then I was a grown woman, my parents ageing, and the thought of moving to town terrified me. Yet Tom promised hed never neglect his own parents, and hed already helped us plant and harvest potatoes and mend the roof.
My brother and sisterinlaw urged me to seize the chance, whispering that I might meet a respectable man in town. They didnt realise theyd already decided that Id be left alone when they set off on their own visits. So I swapped my life as a farmhand for a nannys role. Toms thoughts turned practical: a familiar face could earn a little extra, and my fledgling experience would continue.
The eldest of Toms children started school, the second followed shortly after. My own parents passed away, and I found myself caring not for Toms brood but for another nephews offspring. The job passed from hand to hand in the family, shepherding children from crèche to primary school. It seemed I was becoming superfluous. The younger cousins began to view me less as help and more as a burden. Ah, Tomthank you for that.
A few years before my presence began to feel like an unwanted weight, the familys modest farmhousenestled by a berryladen wood and a winding riverwas sold by my sisters children for a tidy sum. Tom seized the moment, Lets pool what we have and buy Aunt Molly a small room of her own. She deserves more than a shed under the hedges.
My nieces husbands sister fretted, What will happen if she dieswho will inherit this tiny home? The housing question had always been a thorn. Tom, ever the optimist, waved his hand, Whoever serves the tea will get the cupboard, or as Molly sees fit. He never lived to see fifty; a bout of gastritis and later cancer took him away.
When Tom passed, the extended family seemed to forget about me. The children grew up, no longer needing a nanny. I was in my seventies, with little left but a few pieces of furniturea table, a wardrobe, a folding cothanded down from the farm. The quiet of my new modest flat settled over me like a blanket.
One dull afternoon, while queuing at the grocer, a young lady struck up a conversation: Do you happen to look after children? My daughter, Lily, just had heart surgery and cant go to nursery. I need a loving nanny who can stay overnight. Her pale little girl stood nearby, eyes wide. The woman added, Come on, Ill tell you stories. I couldnt refuse. Thus began a new chapter with Lily as my charge.
Lucy, now four, thrived under my care. She and I became fast friends, sharing a bright, airy bedroom. Her parents worked long hours, leaving her most of the day with meaffectionately called MumMolly by the child, a nickname I never minded. I made sure she did her breathing exercises, avoided the smoky streets, and kept to a regular routine. Though I lacked formal education, I followed her needs to the letter.
When bedtime crept in, Lily would ask, Molly, tell me a story about your life. Id spin simple, heartfelt tales, even recounting the time I boarded a riverboat with a pregnant nieces husbands sister, who later abandoned her on me with a baby wrapped in a blanket. The child, named Alina, stared at me with a serious gaze, as if weighing fate itself.
Wouldnt it be lovely to have a baby of your own? I whispered, sighing at my own loneliness. Alinas mother, Oona, a university student, had left the vessel at the dock, dropping the infant at my feet with a hastily packed bag of baby suppliesno birth certificate, just a sack of formula and a thermos of hot water. She muttered, God sent her to you.
The boat pulled away, and I cradled Alina, humming a lullaby. I imagined a future where she might become my daughter. Oonas husbands sister, furious that Id taken the child, stormed in, demanding, Why are you keeping a strangers baby when you have blood relatives? But the captain intervened, and Alina remained with me.
Soon after, Lucys mother, Evelyn, remarked, Shes just a dummy, that Nobodyshell never amount to much. The sting of those words lingered, yet Lucy, with tears glistening, hugged me and said, Youre my Aunt Molly, my dear. I nodded, Youre mine, my girl.
For a while, I was a fullfledged member of the household. They paid me a modest stipend, which I tucked away with my pension. One evening Evelyn, embarrassed, suggested, Molly, why dont we rent out your little flat? The moneys small, but we could afford piano lessons for Lucy. We had an old piano gathering dust; she wanted Lucy to learn music without sending her to a conservatoire. I agreed, and we turned the room into a rental.
Years later, Evelyn inherited a share of an apartment from a late aunt and sold it for a tidy £15,000. With my consent, the modest flat was transformed into a spacious onebedroom flat, deeded jointly to Lucy and me. By then, the rest of the family had lost interest in me, and life settled into a gentle rhythm.
Lucy blossomed into a striking, healthy young woman, graduated from school, and moved to Manchester to study. I handed her my savingsenough for rent, her living costs, perhaps even a wedding dress. My eyesight was fading; I shuffled about, a frail, smelly old woman, still clinging to the notion that I belonged in Evelyns world.
Evelyn, irritated, moved me from the bright bedroom to the dim cellar storage. For Gods sake, go back to your own place! she snapped, treating me as a stranger. She insisted I was nobody, erasing all the kindness Id shown.
Eventually, the family tried to place me in a care home. They fetched a wellconnected friend to pull the necessary paperwork. Lucy, caught up in university life, barely remembered to ask about me, answering her mothers calls with halflistened words. She returned home only for brief visits, bringing groceries from her parents.
During Lucys second year, she burst with excitement: Mum, Andrew has proposed! Hell come this weekend with his parents. No grand wedding, just a simple white dress and wheres the nanny? Ive got a special gift for her. She rushed to the room that had once been mine. I followed, uneasy.
No, wheres Molly? Lucy gasped, frightened. Evelyn, trying to hide the truth, said, Shes fine, just in the dark room. Your father cleared out the shelves, making space. Shes blind, so its easier for everyone. The pantry door creaked open, revealing a threadbare bed and my frail form.
Evelyn fled the kitchen, unwilling to witness the painful reunion. Lucys tears fell as she brushed my wrinkled cheeks, whispering, Sorry, my dear. Youre my sweet berry, my little jam. I managed a hoarse, Lucy, love, its all right, and brushed her cheek in return.
Two hours later, after a modest lunch, I sat on the edge of the old bed, a small scented box on my lapLucys gift of dried herbs and blossoms. The aromas transported me to a sunny meadow, a world of scent, touch, and sound that Id long forgotten.
Behind the closed kitchen door, Evelyn tried to negotiate with Lucy, complaining about the strain of caring for a blind old woman while her own husband seemed to be drifting into a midlife slump.
Lucy, halfwhispering, asked, What if I lock you in that cellar for forty yearswould you understand?
Evelyn shrieked, Shes nobody! and Lucy retorted, Then shes my Nobody, and thats all that matters.
We postponed the meeting with Andrews parents, inviting him instead to see my little flat. The property, once empty, was now a modest but tidy onebedroom shared by Lucy and me, furnished with secondhand pieces bought cheap at a market.
Lucy hoped Andrew would accept my presence, but he, a medical student, proved compassionate. He suggested we marry, exchange vows in a simple chapel, and I would stay by Lucys side as her confidante. Lucy shifted her studies to speech therapy, determined to help children like Lily.
I realized I was not as helpless as Evelyn thought. I could still look after children, manage a household, and offer love without formal training.
When Lucys mother, Evelyn, finally tried to place me in a senior home, I stood firm. Only lonely souls go there. I have you, Lucy. That night, Lucy kissed my frail cheek, promising, Ill keep you safe, my Nobody.
Years later, Lucy graduated as a speech therapist, Andrew became an ophthalmologist, and our family grew. The grandchildren moved into the former family home, while my husband and I settled into the cozy flat.
I passed away peacefully at ninetytwo, my final year spent in quiet repose, free from complaints. My life may have been humble, but it was filled with love, duty, and the soft hum of a cottage that never truly let go of its old nanny.
Molly.
